Compression Hose, Chin Hairs, Varicose Veins. Oh My!

Is this an homage to my husband's favorite ad?

No it's not.

Here's what really happened.

I was at my friend's parents' house. We were talking about all kinds of stuff. She's a 48 year-old new mom. I'm a 49 year-old mother of a teenager. Her sister was there, another mom to a teenager. Their older parents were there. My friend's vascular surgeon husband was there. So three middle-aged women, older parents and a doctor - really nothing was sacred in terms of discussion topics.

We were talking about things like facial hair (women's). We were talking about compression hose (had no idea). We were talking about pacifiers. 

That's how it was going. 

I confessed to the group that I had recently discovered a vein on my calf I wanted to have fixed. Hint, hint vascular surgeon. I so thought we could handle this "amongst friends" if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

See what happened was...one day...in the daylight...I saw this vein. 

Okay before that, let me say that I got lucky. My mom has good legs. My grandmas both had good legs. So I got lucky in the leg department. Like this summer I was walking through the mall and this older lady -- I'm going to say 80? -- said out loud to me, "You've got great legs." Of course I was by myself and there were no witnesses, but I swear she said it.

And I said, "Thanks doll!" Cuz that's what old broads call each other. Doll. Sugar. Hon.

But the thing is, I've only seen the front of my legs recently. Then I caught a glimpse of the back of my legs. And without my knowledge or consent, something had happened to one of my good parts. One of the parts I thought was still standing. 

This weird vein that's a dot - like the skin is smooth and then there's a dot of a vein about the size of a small pea - well that just appeared overnight. That's not right. That pea-sized vein dot is not right.

And I thought, "I have a what on my what what?"

What the hell?

Oh the horrors of getting old.

Pimsleur on Hiring a Hooker in Marseille

I have studied French for much of my life so technically I should be fluent. In fact, that is not the case. There was a time when I was conversant, when I was living in France and forced to speak the language daily. Now I am rusty. 

About two weeks ago, I decided to check out French conversation tapes from my local library. While focused on getting my pronunciation right and remembering vocabulary, I wasn't really paying attention to what I was actually saying. Then on my way home from work one night, it suddenly hit me. Those Pimsleur people really have a sense of humor. 

Here's are a few sample conversations I'm learning in French:

How to Hire a Hooker in Marseille

Male voice: Je veux passer quelques jours à Marseille. (I would like to spend a few days in Marseille)

Female voice: Ensemble? (Together?)

Male voice: Oui. J'ai cent dollars et quatre-vingt euros. (Yes. I have 100 dollars and eighty euros)

How to (Not) Pick Up Women

Male voice: Est-ce que vous êtes seule mademoiselle? (Are you alone Miss?)

Female Voice: Non, je suis avec mon mari. (No, I am with my husband)

Male voice: Si vous n'êtes pas seule, je vais partir. (If you are not alone, I am going to leave)

How to Thwart a Bank Robber

Male voice: Donnez-moi quatre-vingt dix euros. (Give me 90 euros)

Female Voice: Je ne veux pas. Je veux partir. (I don't want to. I want to leave.)

Et bien, c'est tout!

NB: When I tried searching the term French in Google images, many of the results were people dressed like mimes. Not all french people dress like mimes FYI.

And Then I Saw a Gal Carrying a Diskman

Over Labor Day, I saw a young woman out walking with a Diskman. And I thought, "Hey is she actually carrying a Diskman?" And then I thought, "Hey didn't I write a blog about a Diskman?" And then I looked up my old blog and found this:

 

Long Live the 80's

The pressure is on. My brother and his wife are having an 80's dance party this month and I have to find the perfect costume. I was looking for an old bridesmaid's dress so I could portray Alexis from Dynasty. Couldn't find one so my whole Dynasty idea is out the window as is my idea for my husband's matching Zamfir the pan floutist costume. I believe Zamfir is or was once married to Linda Evans. Or maybe it was Kenny G? Six of one, half dozen of another.

As I sat thinking of ideas from the 80's, I began seeing flashbacks from those days. Tastes, sights and smells I remember like they were yesterday.

1) TAB. I think TAB is probably still sold in Bulgaria but it will never recapture its former glory.

2) Indian Earth. Unless you're an 80's girl, you probably don't know Indian Earth. It came in this cool mini-clay pot and the applicator was the cork top. The cheek bone it created was rather severe.

3) Parliaments. No, not George Clinton's back-up band. Parliaments. Smoke'em if you got'em.

4) Walkman. The clumsy precursor to the iPod. A must-have for tuning out the 'rents. (actual weight 2lbs versus the Diskman weighing in at approximately 5lbs)

5) Mickey's Big Mouth or PBR, et al. Any beer you could afford as a teenager.

6) Famolare shoes. Okay I just found out those shoes are made in Brattleboro, Vermont. I thought they were Italian for God's sake.

7) Buf Puf. I nearly scrubbed my face off with the Buf Puf. Someone should've said something.

Other things I remember are innocence. Having no fear. Getting out of the house as much as possible. Rick Springfield.

Those were the days my friend, we thought they'd never end.

The Makings of Mr. Right

Too long off the blog. Not for lack of content. Writing for work and writing my blog for fun...can at times be mutually exclusive. I'll keep this brief since I'm getting back on the horse after weeks. This thing happened with my son and I just thought it was sweet.

Will was away most of the summer so I'd left his room alone. I didn't worry about peach pits growing fuzz in his garbage can, or dirty socks left under the bed. It was nice and quiet and lonely as hell.

When he came back home, I returned to my old habits of daily visits to his room. Will is an A #1 pack rat. This trait gets in his way at school when he can't find his book in the piles. Or he does his homework but forgets it under the papers on his desk. Will collects random scraps of paper, guitar picks, chapsticks, pencils in various states of sharpness, receipts, beef jerky pouches, etc. He dumps everything out of his pockets on to his desk and then doesn't give it much thought. Or so it seems to me.

I was shuffling through a stack of papers on Will's desk to see if there was anything that could be tossed. Then I found it. It was a 3 x 5 note card lying face down . On it was a list of 5 items for dating. 

Will has many girl friends that he sees frequently to hang with on weekends or go to parties. My favorite party so far was the one for his friend from Nepal. Her father is extremely strict. For her 15th birthday she was allowed to invite one boy in a sea of girls. I dropped Will off and went inside to meet the parents. Nice parents. But it's strange having your son be the only boy. I gave him lots of completely obvious tips like use your manners, be polite, no swearing. He's since gone on to be one of the only boys invited to a New Year's Eve party, bowling parties and movie nights.

Will has had some dates with girls from school.  The first girl was a beauty. She looked like Mila Kunis. But she made her sister cry in front of Will so he decided she was kind of mean. A few more dates with another girl. They decided they were better suited as friends. It's all been very civil so far. While he's still where he is, I am delighted to know that what's been on his mind is a simple list of 5 dating rules.

The first? Be friends with her.

The last? Take her somewhere that costs $30.

I think he's definitely on the right track. I'm not exactly sure where he got the $30 figure but it sounds fair to me.

Half-Baked: A Poorly Conceived Plan

This spring in Connecticut has been unusually cold. Even for Connecticut. Where it's cold a lot. When you're a Texan like me, living in a place as cold as this, it wears on you. You get a little stir crazy. You start to contemplate things you wouldn't even consider under normal circumstances. And that's why I went tanning. Not spray tanning. Actually tanning in a bed.

It all started when a client asked me to attend their big annual event in Vegas. It's called Hexagon Live.  I spent two weeks ahead of the event researching case studies from their clients that I'd been asked to interview. These are companies from around the world doing very cool stuff with our client's geospatial mapping software. Very technical stuff, very complex applications. Lots of studying. 

But in the back of my mind, because after all I am a girl, I was thinking what will I wear? I hadn't even swapped out my winter clothes for summer. Because it was still so cold. It was not cold in Vegas however. The weekend I arrived the weather forecasters were predicting the temperature would be in the low 100's. I panicked. How could I dress for 100-degree weather and not put my hideously white legs on display?

So I started with a little bronzing. I had some left over from years ago. It was probably expired because even after two applications, I didn't really have a tan.Off to Vegas I went in all my pastiness, praying I wouldn't have to wear a skirt. 

When I came back to Connecticut it was still cold. Enough already. I got a new, stronger bronzer. Oy that was a disaster. Stripes and swirls everywhere on my arms and legs. My wrists were orange. Ridiculous is how I would describe my look. 

That's when a girlfriend from work and I decided to go check out the new tanning salon nearby. We'd stopped in weeks before but the place was still under construction. This time, they were open for business. We decided to try one session on the spot. You could choose to sit in there for up to 20 minutes but Julie decided to do 10 instead. The check-in girls looked at me and politely suggested I try 8. 

In we went. Everything was new and clean. I had to walk back out to ask for those little mini goggles. Then I got into the bed, for the first time ever, and sat there for 8 minutes. 

Without pulling the lid down. Because I didn't realize you're supposed to do that. 

In the end, I'd tanned about 2/3 of my body. So my back and part of my right arm looked somewhat tan and the rest was the same. I know Julie wants to go back but I think I'm out. When you grow up in the South and you're used to the actual sun on your skin, tanning just isn't the same. And then there's my deep-seated fear of looking like Magda from There's Something About Mary. Or that crazed tanning mom. 

Memories Like the Cobwebs of My Mind

In recent weeks, I've seen two movies that delve into the subject of memory: Oblivion, starring Tom Cruise, and Trance with James McAvoy. Oblivion is a big budget, sci-fi extravaganza that was probably produced by the Church of Scientology. No I'm totally kidding. Because Morgan Freeman is also in the movie, and he's like an atheist. 

In Oblivion, Tom Cruise plays one of the last humans still left on Earth following an invasion by aliens. We are told these aliens, called Scavs, launched a nuclear war that left the moon with a giant hole in it and purportedly much of the planet uninhabitable. Most earthlings left for a space village in the sky, while Tom aka Jack and his lady friend Victoria are charged with minding the slow removal of the Earth's water. They are kept company by a fleet of drones, known only by their numbers, that are programmed to target and destroy any remaining Scavs.

Tom goes on patrol every morning to repair downed drones. His lovely partner keeps an eye on his progress and warns him of Scav sightings. Those pesky Scavs. They are having a run of good luck lately, damaging drones and downing a US  spacecraft that's from the past, but in the future. It's this incident that causes a rift between Jack and Victoria, heretofore always considered an "efficient team." And the unraveling of secrets begins, including the fact that this team has had their memories scrubbed.

I won't give all of the plot away. It's actually pretty twisty and likely the film deserved better ratings then it received. But IronMan 3 is kicking ass in the big budget movie department with $75 million in box office last weekend versus $4 million for Oblivion.

Trance on the other hand is a film by Danny Boyle, the director made famous for Slumdog Millionaire. James McAvoy's character, Simon, is in security at a prestigious auction house when an expensive painting is stolen. During the robbery, Simon is hit over the head and suffers a serious injury. From that point forward, his memory is shaky. This plot also takes some major turns and it becomes imperative, if not life threatening, that Simon recall the events of that day.

I Coulda Been a Contenda on Name That Tune

My memories are a strange thing. I can remember many, many, many song lyrics. If Name That Tune was still on, I would rock that show. (This is so cool. I just googled Name That Tune and a free app came up that is like Name That Tune for the iPhone.) But I can't remember other things. Important things. Like my anniversary. It took me forever to remember it correctly. I got married on July 6th and my husband's birthday is July 9th. But I always feel slightly panicked when I try to keep them straight.

We moved a lot as kids. Thanks IBM. So I also have trouble remembering where I was when something happened. Was that California or was that Connecticut? Sometimes I can remember because of what was around me. Was it sunny? What clothes was I wearing? If it's sunny, and I'm wearing OP shorts, that was Cali.

As a teenager, I worked in a home for retired Jesuit priests in Weston, Massachusetts. Kind of a weird job but all the Friendly's waitress jobs were taken. Some of the retirees could remember everything. Brother Sullivan, for example, looked after the wine in the apparently enormous wine cellar at Fairfield University. He could remember all the wines. For Father Eberle however, every day was a new day. Every day, I was the new girl. 

Last weekend, my husband and I went to Radio Shack to invest in something called an RCA cable. We had to google that too. My husband walked in the store then shortly after walked out. He wanted to check the connection to the cable. "She was right," he said. Then he walked back in and out again. Cable in hand, we were trying to read the Tiguan owner's manual to see how to work this magical cable that would allow us to connect our iPhone to the CAR! Spooky scary cool.

I said, "What do you think Radio Shack girl would say if we asked her to help us? I think she would say we are old." He nodded in agreement. I actually figured it out before we had to enlist the help of Radio Shack girl. Thank god!

The first song that played from my phone through the magical car cable was an oldie from the Counting Crows Mrs. Potter's Lullabye. "If dreams are like movies, then memories are films about ghosts." That's the line I've been thinking about. 

The Persistence of Memory pictured is a painting by Dali, in case you don't recognize his style.

One Car, Two Years, Three People

For the past two years, we've been a one-car family. It's not been easy driving to the train and baseball and work and repeat. I wish I could say our decision to own one car was eco-driven, our own personal statement about sustainability and green. It's not. It based on cowardice. My husband and I cannot stand dealing with car salesmen. Or car sales ladies. Either one.

For my husband, I think it has to do with his upbringing. His father owned an auto parts shop growing up and he spent his summers stripping engines and foraging for car parts. He got hit in the face with a dolly and split his nose open. He drove a forklift off a cliff (or large hill). He sweated through many North Carolina summers, cursing under his breath. He did say it was a slight improvement over working in a tobacco warehouse.

For me, it's that I've never really been a "car" person. Or maybe I never got over my first car. When I was 16 years-old, my dad bought a red Triumph convertible - TR6. I think he actually bought it for himself, but at some point realized that when you're 6' 4", the TR6 is not the optimal driving car. Unfortunately for my dad, that car was a stick shift and I wrecked the transmission. And that was all she wrote. 

I know. Youth is wasted on the young.

When I went to college, I lived in New Orleans. I took the streetcar, hitched (yes I'm an idiot) and my roommate had a car. Then I spent a year studying in Paris and taking the Métro. Mais oui. When I worked in Manhattan, I took Metro-North. All along I had this car my parents bought me. It was a blue Volkswagen Golf that I got when we were living in Massachusetts. It had no A/C. Now when you're living in Massachusetts, that will probably work. When you move to New Orleans or Raleigh, that will not work. The Blue Bunny as I called her eventually died in North Carolina after 12 years of loyal service. Boy did I go through some hot summers.

My next car was a Volvo station wagon I bought from my friend Amy. It had 178,000 miles on it. Again no A/C, no air bags or other modern safety features. On a positive note, it only cost me $1,500. I drove that car back and forth from Cisco in RTP for a couple of years. Then I got married. I got pregnant. And we needed a car. A real car with air bags and seatbelts that worked. We traded in our old Volvo for a shiny new Volvo sedan. It was awesome. We even leased it through the business, so it was sort of like a free car. When the lease was up, we turned her in. 

At Least My Car Doesn't Have an 8-Track

By that time, my dad had sold us one of his old Jeeps. Then he gave me my grandma's Jeep when she wasn't allowed to drive anymore. I'm thankful he gave me that car because the car she had before was a pale yellow, gigantor Caddy with Al Hirt stuck in the 8-track player. Slowly but surely those two Jeeps died and my husband and I were faced with the ugly truth. We needed a car. From like a dealership. We were going to have to negotiate.

We test drove a few cars including a sensible Subaru Forester. Ultimately, we bought a Volkswagen Tiguan. Get it? It's like a Tiger and an Iguana, in the same car. My husband swore he wouldn't buy a VW, but they are nice cars to drive. Have we had problems? Yes. You betcha. That's the nature of cars. That's why I hate cars. They're so needy. It's always, "I need oil. There's no air in my tires." Such high maintenance. 

As often as possible, I drive the scooter my husband bought me for Christmas about 10 years ago. Not a terribly practical vehicle for New England. But I love my scooter. It's a Yamaha Vino. It's silver. I have a shiny red helmet and a horn.

My dream car is a dark blue Porsche 911 Carrera convertible. As a kid, we lived in LA briefly and my dad had a friend in La Cañada. One day my dad and I followed him to his house, trailing behind him in his Porsche 911 Carrera. Maybe I'm dreaming this but I think it really happened. I remember that beautiful car, the mountains in the distance and the feeling of being in LA.

I guess when you are finally able to buy a Porsche, there's not a lot of haggling that goes on. Or maybe the haggling gets worse? We shall see.